I always thought I’d be the mother of girls. I always pictured myself raising a gaggle of sisters like the March family. I read Little Women about 100 times as a child, then a tween, and then a teen. I read it until the pages were torn and had been dog-eared a few too many times. I am a girl, I know how to be a girl, I know the good parts about being a girl, and I understand the bad parts. I get the emotions, the drama. I have been through them all. Boys are simply a mystery to me. I don’t understand them. They need too many haircuts, they occasionally smell strange, they always have holes in their socks, they play sports that require too much equipment, and they, um, wrestle. For fun.

We didn’t find out what we were having with baby #1. Because I knew she was a girl. And sure enough, she came out with all of the appropriate lady parts and I cried my fool head off because I was the mama of a girl.

We didn’t find out what we were having with baby #2. Because I knew she was a girl. I had the exact same pregnancy as I had previously, even down to the same cravings. Mexican food and cookie dough, for the record.

But, alas, when the baby came out, there was an unexpected appendage attached. It’s a boy! The nurses announced, despite the (was it disappointment, possibly?) confused look on my new-mom face.

“A boy?” I asked, shocked.

A BOY?

A BOY?

A BOY.

Of course.

A boy.

I’m the mama of a boy — a boy mum. After one look, I just knew. I was meant to be the mama of girls and a boy. I just hadn’t known it until that very moment.

Sure, he smells weird sometimes. Sure, I am constantly throwing out socks. Sure, he requires more haircuts than his sisters. Sure, he likes to wrestle. Sure, he never ever, ever, ever tells me anything. But he adds so much character to our family. He is an important piece of the puzzle. One that makes me laugh, and makes me wonder, and makes me cry.

One that watches Sunday football with me.

One who totally won Mother’s Day this year when this showed up on my social media feeds.

And one that finds me giving him 100 kisses in a row. Because, of course.

Me: Josh, there’s no way you can eat that entire cup of frozen yoghurt.

Josh: Yes. Yes. Yes.

Me: I bet you that you can’t.

Josh: What do you want to bet?

Me: I don’t know…100 kisses?

Josh: BETTER GET THOSE LIPS READY!

I know now that my boy was meant to be mine, and that I was meant to be the mama of a boy. He is such an amazing kid, and having a boy completely changed the dynamic of our family. I sometimes think about it, though, about what my life would have been like if I had gotten the family I had imagined, just a gaggle of girls, and I don’t have one single disappointment or regret, no matter what my shocked face might have told the nurses minutes after his birth.

Ali Martell is a writer, an editor, a photographer, a social media manager, a pop culture binge-watcher, and a getter-of-drinks. She lives in the Toronto nosebleeds with her chef husband, her three material-providing, unintentionally hilarious children, and her panty-eating puppy. You can find her on her blog, Cheaper Than Therapy and on Facebook, where she writes about nothing, Seinfeld-style